Enemies

Anyone can make enemies and the worst kind
are those that masquerade as your friend.

So true.

Your writing reminds me of someone I knew, or at least I thought I knew. No one will ever know anyone.

Oh, the irony to learn too late that a drunkard knows lust, not love. They only have occasional hope and frequent regret.

You see, I miss his voice and I hear it in your words, but in a different style. He was my angel, and I needed him like I needed a hole in my head. He also howled at the moon.

I loved him as best I could, but he walks a lonely road.

Shall we be friends or foes?

Who am I

Perhaps the gentle breeze,
a zephyr, carrying the smell of wood smoke
on a winter'��s morn. The whisper of tyres on a distant road.

The break of dawn,
bringing the first warmth and light.
The rush of melt water tumbling down a mountain stream.

The great blue sky,
echoing with the greeting cries of aerial hunters;
gladdening your ears, smiling your lips, lighting your eyes.

Maybe that distant,
Indistinct figure who raises a friendly hand
as we, ploughing our lonely furrow, pass like ships at sea.

A taste of red,
enjoyed while being fascinated by mesmeric
dancing flames of a log fire, in a Grande Maison. Ah, "��La belle..."��

I may not be,
any of these things, but I am the sum of all that
I'��ve been, and joining you in a conspiratorial feeling of oneness,
"��This is who I would be."��


Riley